I’m through writing. I’m sick of it.
It makes me feel awful and so many find fault and misinterpret.
I started with story telling, but moved on to free verse.
The farther I dug down to the pit of my stomach,
The darker the result, alienating some,
Causing others to suspect my sanity,
I spent hours, days, weeks not searching,
But being open.
And then, having discovered things,
I shared in an open and honest fashion
And stirred up a great dust storm,
A wasp’s nest.
I erred as I drove forward,
Carelessly searching to test my new insights.
You need to know that I don’t do well in personal confrontation.
I can stand up for myself in calm logical rationalization ,but
When emotions raise the ante,
I tend to fold.
I felt so sure,
And now it I’m sick of it.
I am sick of the hurt it has brought others near and dear.
Should I return to the man I thought I was supposed to be?
Should I march on ignoring the fallout and censorship?
What Would Hemingway do?